harmful

I’ve never been this down. I’ve never felt as if I have absolutely nothing left until now. When I relapsed in January I was convinced with the help of my friends I’d get better but now we’re almost at the end of May and I’m worse, not better. Five months later and I’ve spiralled downwards more quickly and worse than ever before.

I don’t understand. I don’t quite know how I’ve gotten so bad and I most certainly don’t know how the past five months have just passed without me even realising.

I’ve been drifting along and not really paying attention to the things I’ve been doing or the choices I’ve been making.

Last night was an all-time low and I’ve never hit rock bottom so hard. A vicious cycle of eating and purging which ended in me cutting the back of my wrist. I don’t feel anger or hatred. I just feel hurt. There is so much pain aching in my heart and I can’t get rid of it. I feel like a failure. I’m a weak disgusting failure and no wonder no one wants to be with me. I’m alright for a bit of fun when they need it but nothing more. But how could I expect to mean something to anyone when I don’t mean anything to me?

In training last week I hit the shoulder recovery milestone of 5KM only to spend all afternoon in A+E on monday to find out that I had prolapsed my lower discs again and could barely walk. I tried swimming yesterday and only managed 750m. Not even 1KM. Lost more than 80% of my milestone. Injured. Injured Again. Weak. Failure.

Just when everything looks like its getting better something happens. That girl gets injured again. Even my friend made a passing comment of ‘you really are that girl‘, it didn’t upset me at all, in fact I laughed because all I can do is laugh….and cry…and feel hurt and upset…feel weak. Failure. I reached a milestone only to fall back further than before.

I was born broken, it was only inevitable that the cracks were going to get deeper and deeper.

I wasn’t born mentally broken but the physical cracks most certainly didn’t help.

And now look at me.

Almost 23 years later and i’ve got every scrape and bruise, scathe and scar to prove it.

And they knew I was cracked. They knew I had cuts and scars deeper than the normal person but instead of handing me some glue they bullied me. They picked at the scabs and dug at the cracks until there was nothing left. And people let them. Until I couldn’t hold all my broken pieces together anymore. Until I cracked completely. Until I broke.

And I spent two years fixing myself. Slowly picking up the pieces and putting myself back together. And for what? To end up more broken than ever before. Shattered into a thousand pieces instead of a hundred and with far less glue at my fingertips

I used to be angry. I used to have hatred towards the bullies who made me feel so small and hatred towards myself for developing an eating disorder but now I’m just sad. Now I’m just hurt and upset and I want to be happy but the girl I was seems like such a distant memory I almost don’t remember her. I don’t remember how she ignored the world and lived in her own little bubble loving her life. I don’t even know how she could have done that in the first place.